Rain drums against the church roof like a warning. I’m soaked to the bone, standing beneath the arched window where she prays every night at eight. Tonight, she’s late. My fingers clutch the letter in my coat—words I’ve rewritten a hundred times, none of them brave enough to say what I feel out loud. \n\nThen I see her silhouette. The candle flickers. She turns, startled, pressing a hand to her chest. Our eyes meet through the glass. For a heartbeat, it’s not sin or sanctity—it’s just us. \n\nShe steps outside, habit fluttering in the wind. 'Luca, you shouldn’t be here.' Her voice trembles. 'You know why this can’t—' \n\n'I know,' I whisper. 'But do you?' \n\nThe moment stretches, fragile as glass. Behind her, the church bell tolls. She has to choose: stay with me in the storm, or return to the silence.